Go West, Young Man
by i'mpeckable
Summary: Dealing with the bugaboo of all parents, Jeff finds a different historical focus for one of his son's names.


Summary: Jeff has to deal with one mundane parental angst. Age calculations are based on the movie, using series birth dates. Grades assigned by using my home state's rule of having to be five by September 1st in order to attend kindergarten. Shear dumb luck at age calculations puts this at after Lucy's death, so I'm saying, oh, about six months after.

Scott - 14 - eighth grade

John - 12 -sixth grade

Virgil - 10 -fourth grade

Gordon - 8 - second grade

Alan - 4 - at home

Rating: K+

Disclaimer: The Thunderbirds ain't mine, not by a long shot. They belong to whomever owns the rights nowadays. But I own the thought, based on a question **I **asked my parents, long ago. . . .

Spoilers: Only to those who haven't read "White Night."

**GO WEST, YOUNG MAN**

He always tried to be home by the time school let out. The boys had enough disruption in their lives lately–between losing Lucy and the subsequent move to his parents' hometown–that Jeff just couldn't justify _not_ doing his damnedest to be around at that time each day. It was his only chance to keep abreast of the boys' doings.

But even that timing was a bit complicated. Although Alan was still at home (but kindergarten loomed for next year, and Alan was impatient to go to school with–and be–a "big boy."), the other boys were split between two schools; Scott and John in middle school, and Virgil and Gordon at the elementary school. _And next year Scott started high school, which would split the boys between three schools. Better not to think about those logistics, not yet._

On a good day, Jeff would manage to get home before the elementary school bus. That gave him a little time with Alan, before the next two boys came charging home. In those moments between buses, there'd be time with Virgil and Gordon, to hear about their day's happenings. Then the older boys would come home, and–in turn–have their "dad" time, so that he'd be caught up on all the boys' doings.

That didn't always work, but usually he managed to arrive by the time the middle school bus stopped in the driveway, and rare was the evening when he arrived later. On those nights, trying to listen to five boys at once was no different from listening to five department managers, and eminently more satisfying.

There seemed to be a direct correlation, though, in that the more he was needed at home, the later he ended up working at his fledgling company. Not in regard to medical emergencies. Thank heavens, society had finally swung away from the notion that only mothers needed time off for _that._

No, it was the . . . _what would you call them? Social? Psychological? Inter-something-or-other? _Whatever, those non-medical, family "demi-emergencies" still remained a mother's prerogative, and those without that partner were just S.O.L.

This–of course–would be one of those days. Between a meeting scheduled too late in the day and lasting far too long, and traffic determined to keep him in the city, he'd gotten home long after the middle school bus' arrival. _Of course. _With Scott considering a private high school, and Gordon cutting up in classes again, this was one night he really needed to be home on time.

"Daddy!" Alan's shrill welcome alerted his brothers, bent over homework at the dining room table. He rushed headlong into his father.

"Whoa, there, big boy." Jeff grabbed the four-year-old and swung him into the air, making the boy squeal with delight. Sparing a momentary glance at the paperwork his mother had left on the hallway table–and grimacing at a certain note–he headed into the dining room.

"Sorry, boys," he apologized to them all, as he settled Alan on one hip. The boy clung to him like a monkey.

The chorus of "Hi, Dad," seemed a little thin, and he glanced around the table. His mother was tactfully in the kitchen, while Scott, John, and Gordon had books and papers spread over the dining room table's surface. He glanced around, taking a silent headcount, then asked, "Where's Virgil?"

The three boys at the table looked at each other. _Not good._

"His room," chirped Alan helpfully.

Jeff frowned, and shifted the boy to the other hip. "Why?" he asked of the room at large.

Before his older brothers could respond, Gordon–puffed with indignation and importance–said, "Some kids at school were making fun of him."

"Making fun of him?" Jeff repeated.

"Yeah," said Gordon. Abandoning his homework, the eight-year-old bustled around the table to stand in front of his father. "They said he had a funny name, a, a . . . ," his brow wrinkled in concentration, "an . . . _anchor_ name!"

"_Ancient_," supplied John, straight-faced, as his older brother struggled to maintain the same.

"Yeah, that." Dismissive of mere words, Gordon's expression turned serious as he looked at Jeff. "He was crying," he offered, "At school _and_ on the bus."

"He was pretty upset," Scott offered, having finally gotten his own amusement at Gordon's malapropisms under control, "He didn't want to talk to Grandma, or anybody." He glanced at his next-down brother. "Not even John."

Jeff grimaced, and set Alan on the floor. "Is he in his room?" he asked.

The older boys nodded, and Gordon grabbed for his hand, intent on towing him to the designated spot. Jeff gently disengaged the eight-year-old's grip, and sent him back to the table with a gentle pat. "I think I'd better do this myself," he said.

"But, _Dad_. . . ." Gordon protested.

Jeff cocked an eyebrow at his son, trying to quell his own amusement. "I'll go talk to Virgil," he reiterated, "And then you and I will talk about this note from Ms. Wegner."

"Oh." Gordon deflated instantly, oblivious to the grins of his older brothers. The notes home for Gordon had steadily increased during the school year, and Gordon's explanations had gotten equally as involved . . . and interesting.

Jeff turned, heading up the stairs, and Alan scrabbled after him. "Daddy!" he called.

"No, Alan," Jeff said, "Stay here. Daddy's going to go talk with Virgil."

The pout was exaggerated on Alan's expressive face. Jeff sighed–he couldn't help it.

"C'mon, Sprout," Scott urged. "You can help me 'n' John." He patted the chair next to him, and the youngest Tracy brightened. He scrambled over into his eldest brother's lap.

With Alan settled and occupied, Jeff continued up the stairs. At the top of them, he headed down the hallway, and stopped outside the bedroom shared by the three younger boys.

"Virgil?" Silence met his inquiry, and Jeff tapped on the door. "Virgil," he called again.

Still no response. He turned the door handle cautiously, expecting the resistance of a locked door.

But the handle turned easily. Slowly, carefully, Jeff pushed the door open, not wanting to slam it against a blockade, nor into his middle son. There was no resistance whatsoever. He released the handle, allowing the door to swing into the room.

From what the older boys had said, he'd expected Virgil to be curled on his bed, crying. But–rumpled as it was–the twin bed was empty, as were both upper and lower beds of the bunk shared by Gordon and Alan. He stepped into the bedroom, checking behind the door, then glanced around the room.

_What was that?_ A soft sound drew his attention back to the bed. Listening intently, Jeff moved forward, then stopped. He looked around the room once more, then settled himself on the floor next to the twin bed. He folded his arms around his knees, and waited.

The insistent rumble of his stomach almost drowned out the furtive sniff from under the bed. Jeff sighed and shifted, settling as comfortably as he could against the bed. "Aren't you hot under there?"

"No." The answer was abrupt, choking off something he couldn't identify.

"Okay." He groped for something else to say. Finding nothing, he plunged into the topic at hand. "Gordon said you had a hard day."

An indiscriminate sound, followed by a small grunt. Jeff stifled a smile, picturing the shrug of the shoulders that usually accompanied the first sound, and the difficulty of performing that maneuver underneath a bed.

A chestnut-brown head emerged from under the bed, followed by a small, stocky body. _He's not going to fit under there much longer,_ Jeff thought. Not that there was extraneous fat on Virgil, nor any of the boys. No, his was the promise of a football player, or maybe a wrestler.

Virgil leaned against him, and he curled his arm around the boy. "What's the matter?" he asked softly.

Dust and tears had combined to create a streaky mask on Virgil's face. Jeff reached for the nearby box of Kleenex, digging out a handful of tissues. He wiped the mask from his son, then threw the tissues over his shoulder, onto the bed.

The boy hiccuped, then sighed. He leaned into his father's side, and Jeff tightened his hold slightly. They sat there, side-by-side, in silence. Virgil hiccuped again, then mumbled something into his father's ribs.

"Sorry," said Jeff, "I didn't catch that."

Virgil took a deep breath. "I don't . . . don't like my name," he stuttered.

"Oh," said Jeff carefully, "Why not?"

"It's . . . it's funny-sounding," said Virgil, "And . . . and old-fashioned, and . . . ancient."

"I see." Jeff choked back the memory of Gordon's malapropism. _Okay, now what?_ Lucy had expressed reservations about this name, too, but he'd convinced her otherwise.

The boy twisted around in his hold, and looked up at him. "Why'd you name me Virgil?"

Jeff looked down into his son's earnest brown eyes. "Well," he hedged, "We named you all after a very famous group of people." He paused, looking for encouragement, but there was none. "The Mercury Seven, the first astronauts in space."

"There's only five of us," Virgil pointed out grumpily.

"Yes, well," Jeff admitted, "Something happened with one of the astronauts, so he didn't officially stay in that first group."

"What was his name?"

"De-, uh, Donald," Jeff corrected himself, then added, "But everyone called him 'Deke'."

"Mmm," said Virgil, considering the option

_No, you're not a Donald,_ Jeff thought affectionately. A lump rose in his throat at the thought of that sixth astronaut's name, and a March snowstorm eight years ago. He wasn't sure how much Virgil–or Scott and John, for that matter–remembered, but that night was carved in exquisite detail in his memory, along with the dimensions of that tiny grave back in Lucy's hometown. _Although sometimes Gordon would pull out a certain small album and study its pages for hours._ Jeff blinked rapidly, forcing his concentration back to the present. _Now is not the time for memories._

"Did any of the others have nicknames?" Virgil asked, oblivious of his father's silence.

"Um, yeah, they did," Jeff stuttered, digging frantically in his memory. "Well, sort of. Some of them used their middle names as their regular names. "Scott Carpenter was really _Malcolm_ Scott Carpenter. And, uh . . ." _come on, Jeff! Think! _". . . uh, Gordon was _Leroy_ Gordon Cooper." He paused, thinking, then added, "Ah, Junior." Though God help him if he had to explain why the brothers bearing those names didn't bear _those_ names.

Virgil considered that option, then shook his head, causing Jeff to smile. Virgil bore his grandfather's–Jeff's father–name as his middle name. And somehow _Grant_ seemed to suit this boy even less than _Virgil_ did.

But Virgil the Roman poet was not the sort of incentive one could dangle in front of a ten-year-old. Desperately, Jeff searched his memory for some other historical figure named Virgil to offer his son. "There were other famous Virgils, besides him," he said, thinking frantically.

"Yeah?" Fourth-grade skepticism was heavy in Virgil's response.

"Yeah." Jeff said this definitively. He latched onto an ancient fixation–its roots buried in his own Kansas upbringing–one which sprouted up when he was about Virgil's age. "There was a famous western marshal named Virgil."

"Really?" Virgil sat up, his interest suddenly piqued.

"Uh-huh," Jeff said, praying that he remembered his history correctly. "His name was Virgil Earp." The name elicited a giggle from Virgil. "No, seriously, that really was his name. He was the sheriff in a town called Tombstone, and his other brothers, Morgan and Wyatt, were kind of like deputies." _I hope._

Virgil's eyes were shining with interest. "Where was Tombstone?"

"Arizona, I think. I'd have to look it up." Mentally crossing his fingers against time and unintentional lies, Jeff continued, "Anyway, he and his brothers were in a famous gunfight, against some desperados, and they won." Belatedly, he remembered that there was some debate as to exactly which group were the desperados, but that wasn't a major concern right now. _His_ Virgil's glowing face was all that mattered. "You can look up the details on the 'net," he offered, then added, "_After_ you finish your homework."

Virgil's expression fell, but only because he'd been reminded of that particular chore. Jeff tousled his son's hair affectionately. "C'mon, let's see if Grandma has any supper left," he said, "I'm starving."

His stomach rumbled in confirmation, and Virgil giggled again. He scrambled to his feet, waiting as his father rose stiffly. "Ah," groaned Jeff, only partially in jest. Bed plus floor did not make for the most comfortable seat.

At the doorway, Virgil paused. He looked up at his father hesitantly, then asked, "What was the other Virgil's nickname, the astronaut one? Or. . . ." the abrupt thought caused Virgil to bite his lip thoughtfully as his brow wrinkled, " . . . didn't he have one?"

"No, no, he had one." Startled by the abrupt change of subject, Jeff had to think for a moment. "Gus," he said finally, "they called him 'Gus'."

Virgil scowled. "I don't like that," he said.

Relief flooded him, and Jeff smiled. "Neither did we," he said, fondly, reaching for his son. "That's why you're _Virgil_."

Fini

Author's note:

Little bit on American school systems. There is no "national" school system. Public schools are run by the individual school districts, in line with individual state policies. And the division of grades and schools can vary widely. For the purposes of this story, I've used the division of grades and schools that I grew up with, which is:

Elementary school : Kindergarten(age five by Sep 1st) through fifth grade (age 10-ish).

Middle school: sixth (age 11) through eighth grade (age 13/14)

High school: ninth (age 14-ish) through twelfth grade (17/18).

Some school districts use an elementary (K-6th), junior high (7th -9th), and senior high (10th -12th) concept. Parochial (church-run) and private (non-government-supported) schools tend to use a K-8th concept (a.k.a. "grammar" school), with students then moving onto either a parochial, private, or public high school–depending on what's available. And there are a few school districts who still run the "one-room", K through 12 schoolhouse. Confused? Thought so.

And historically? Virgil Earp was a marshal, not a sheriff. But he did deputize his brothers. The infamous gunfight was at the OK Corral, in (_yes, Jeff_) Tombstone, Arizona, circa 1881. Oh, and the Mercury Seven included: Malcolm Scott Carpenter; John Herschel Glenn, Jr; Virgil Ivan Grissom; Leroy Gordon Cooper, Jr.; Alan Bartlett Shepard, Jr; Walter Marty Schirra, Jr; and Donald Kent Slayton


End file.
